The Baker of Baker Street
by Etaleah
Summary: Rosie Watson-Holmes has wanted to be a baker since she was a little girl, and she never runs short of occasions to bake for. Throughout the years she shows her love to family and friends with special treats made just for them.
1. Chapter 1

The day that three-year-old Rosie Watson-Holmes saw a towering tiered layer cake in a bakery window was the day that genius detective Sherlock Holmes was spectacularly wrong.

"Daddy, Sherla! Looka the cake."

"I see," John said. "It looks delicious."

"And just baked today," Sherlock observed (somehow).

Rosie couldn't take her eyes off it. "Daddy, can we bake a cake like that one? Please?"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but a cake like that would be really difficult." _And expensive_ , he thought. John remembered perusing the prices of cakes for both of his weddings and each time he had questioned whether they really needed a cake after all.

Sherlock squeezed her shoulder. "I doubt even Mrs. Hudson could bake a cake like that," he said. "You have to have special training for it and go to school to become a baker."

"Then I want to be a baker," Rosie insisted, still mesmerized by the swirls of colorful frosting. "When I grow up I'm going to bake lots of cakes just like that one."

"Good for you," Sherlock said, and gently eased her away from the window—London was crowded this time of day and they were starting to cause a traffic jam. He and John exchanged a look over the top of her head that said _sure she will_. Just that week Rosie had declared that she wanted to be a princess, then a pilot, then a painter, and then a doctor or detective just like her dads. Sherlock knew what her attention span was like and he had no doubt she'd forget all about being a baker in a day.

* * *

The very next morning the clatter of pans and kitchen drawers opening and closing woke Sherlock and John at seven a.m. They bounded out of bed ready to fight the burglar, only to see that the culprit was Mrs. Hudson, who was handing Rosie a mixing bowl. The latter was sitting on the counter in her pink bee-covered footie pajamas and chattering happily to her surrogate grandmother, who was wearing her robe and grinning.

"Now that we've got everything we need, the baking begins," she was saying. "For chocolate cake, the first thing I always do is—oh hello, boys!" She waved her fingers at them.

"Good morning, Daddy, good morning Sherla!" Rosie said, beaming brightly. They couldn't help smiling back.

"What's all this?" John asked, gesturing to the measuring cups, beaters, and other kitchenware spread over the counter.

"Little Watson went downstairs and woke Mrs. Hudson up to teach her to bake, didn't you?" When Rosie giggled, Sherlock added playfully, "You naughty girl."

"Oh I don't mind at all. I'm delighted to teach her," Mrs. Hudson said, patting Rosie's cheek. "But I'm afraid you two will have to leave. No one is allowed to see our masterpiece until it's finished."

"Yeah, you gotta go!" Rosie pointed to the living room and Sherlock and John left, amused at her tone but grateful that Mrs. Hudson was so generous with her time. And the fact that they would get cake didn't hurt either.

* * *

That morning Mrs. Hudson opened the floodgates to years of nurturing Rosie's newfound passion. Even Sherlock had to admit amazement when their little girl's interest in baking not only didn't fade, it intensified with each new treat she learned to make. The flat was forever filled with the sweet smell of biscuits, cake, cupcakes, muffins, brownies, pies, tarts, and when she got older, bread and croissants and similar pastries.

They were often barred access to their own kitchen, but they couldn't say they minded. Eager to encourage her and proud of her no doubt inherited dedication to her art, they bought more and more ingredients. Rosie's delighted squeal when something came out perfect and her bouncing, infectious excitement when she had a new recipe to try made it well worth the money. It wasn't until both their pantry shelves and their waistlines—for they were always obligated to at least taste everything she made—began to bulge that they begged her to slow down.

"But I need to practice," she whined. "I want to learn how to make everything so I can be a baker when I grow up."

"I know, love, but if we keep stockpiling so many sweets, they'll go bad before we can eat them all," John said. _And we'll all be huge and have rotten teeth in the process_ , he thought, feeling the tightness of his clothes and already dreading his next dentist appointment.

In the end it was Sherlock who solved this problem. The members of his homeless network were as eager for good food as they were for money, and Rosie often either gave her goods away or occasionally sold them in the park for pocket money, much to her fathers' relief. As much as they loved her and were thrilled that she had found her calling, there were times when they thought they'd be sick if they saw one more biscuit or cake.

Undaunted, Rosie spent a good bit of her childhood either in the kitchen of 221B or downstairs baking with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock once calculated that her time improving her skills exceeded her time in school by almost a full twelve percent, though it apparently didn't matter; her grades were as good as ever. As was her food.

But by the time she was eight, it was no longer enough for the food to taste good. Now Rosie wasn't satisfied unless her creation looked too beautiful to eat. She began experimenting with frosting, icing, and other toppings and watched YouTube videos on beautiful baked goods. Soon even library cookbooks were cluttering up the tables and threatening to overtake Sherlock's science equipment.

Though he was relieved that she wasn't taking after her mother in terms of career choice, John sometimes wished Rosie's hobby was a little more exciting. To him a nice looking cake was cool for about a minute, then it became less interesting. Figuring one culinary experience could lead to another, one summer he dragged her and Sherlock out to the country and tried to get her interested in grilling.

"I always loved when my parents would let me do this when I was a kid," he told her as he put another hot dog on the grill. "See how it sizzles when I flip it?" He turned it over with a spatula and smiled proudly at the sound.

Rosie was unimpressed. "It's not the same, Daddy. The smoke is smelly and gets in your eyes. And you can't even lick the bowl."

John was crushed. Sherlock tried and failed to console him by pointing out that English weather was never that great for grilling anyway and that Rosie had a seventeen percent better chance at finding employment as a baker. And it seemed she planned to do just that.

For Christmas and her birthday, Rosie begged for her own baking supplies, just like Mrs. Hudson had. " _Please?_ I don't like having to borrow other peoples', I want my own more than _anything_." How could they refuse? They asked Mrs. Hudson for a list of everything a baker would need. Sherlock shopped online for the best-quality supplies and compared reviews, then "borrowed" Mycroft's credit card to pay for it all. John had his own idea of what to get her.

On Christmas Eve, they managed to find a huge basket that would hold everything they had bought her and arranged it all nicely, with a big red bow to make it aesthetically pleasing. They insisted Rosie stay out of the living room until they could all go in together on Christmas morning. This soon proved to be a bad idea, because at six a.m. they woke up to an ecstatic Rosie screaming, "Wake up, it's Christmas!" and bouncing on their bed.

"Mm, don't remind me," Sherlock mumbled and turned over with his eyes still shut. He was an all-nighter on many occasions, but never an early riser. Getting Rosie to school and fixing her breakfast had always been John's job; Sherlock helped with homework and got them dinner.

Rosie shook John's shoulders. "Daddy, come on, wake up. It's Christmas."

He groaned. "Yeah I know. And it'll still be Christmas in half an hour." He tried to bury his head back in the pillow.

"Dad-dee!"

"Rosie, it's still dark outside," John whined. "Just let us sleep a little longer, okay?"

"But I've waited for _hours_ ," Rosie protested. Her fathers knew that by hours she really meant two minutes, but there was enough of a whimper in her voice that Sherlock was almost moved by it.

"John, your daughter wishes to partake in holiday merriment," he said in a monotone, eyes still closed.

"You signed the adoption papers; she's your daughter now. She can be my daughter when the sun's up." John rolled over and snuggled into his pillow.

Not to be defeated, Rosie crawled to Sherlock—he was easier to persuade and Daddy always did whatever he wanted—and blew a big wet raspberry on his cheek. He tried to stifle his giggles to no avail, and finally he gave up on sleep and returned the favor by blowing several on her tummy, sending her into a loud peal of laughter.

"Let's get Daddy," he proposed mischievously, and the two of them covered each of John's cheeks with their lips. It was enough to fully wake him up in good humor, and after a bit more cuddling and a round of "Do you _really_ want to open presents? _Really? Really?_ " and Rosie screaming YES! each time, they led her into the living room.

Mrs. Hudson was already waiting for them, which was fortunate because otherwise she would have missed Rosie's ear-piercing shouts of joy when she saw the basket.

"My own baking supplies!" She rushed to the basket and showered each item with adoration. Sherlock put his arm around John and leaned into him, smiling as they proudly watched her exclaim over her spatula, muffin/cupcake pan, mixing bowl, whisk, cake cutter, rolling pin, measuring cups and spoons, oven mitts, icing spreaders, and various sizes of pots and pans. When she had paused for breath, John said, "Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

"Thank you!" she shouted and ran to hug their legs. "Thank you so much; I love you!"

"We love you too," John said. "But I think you missed something."

Mrs. Hudson giggled delightedly. Rosie's eyes grew so big John thought they might pop out of her head. "What? Is there more?"

Sherlock pointed to a slip of paper, a receipt to be exact, sticking out of the basket. "There's one more present for you right there."

Rosie sprinted over to the paper and plucked it out. She looked a little confused and for a second they worried she couldn't read it—she was only at a third grade level, after all—but then she screamed again. "Cake decorating classes!"

Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands and squealed herself. "Ooh congratulations, love. Those are so much fun; I took one years ago and loved it."

"Now you'll learn to decorate cakes just like a real baker," John said before being nearly tackled by Rosie's hug.

"This is the best Christmas ever!" she screeched loud enough to make John wince.

"You say that every Christmas," Sherlock teased. His heart was swelling so much he had to join them in their hug. "Nothing but the best for our little baker."

* * *

Every gift in that basket received a considerable workout, including the cake decorating classes. Rosie learned fast and was soon making beautiful borders and edgings. By ten she was rivaling supermarket quality, and by sixteen she was looking into culinary schools.

"I'm amazed she's so sure of what she wants to do," John said one night in bed. "I went from wanting to just be a soldier to studying to be a scientist to nursing and back again before I finally decided to be a doctor. And even after I got into medical school, I was changing specialties every other week. Thought I wanted to be a cardiologist for a while."

"I thought I wanted to be a pharmacist," Sherlock said. "No, not for that reason," he said, annoyed at the look John was giving him. "Criminal investigator was also appealing. As was scientist."

They mentioned this to Rosie the following day and she told them her plans. "After I graduate I want to open up my own bakery, and I want to make it especially for LGBTQ+ people."

 _Oh?_ This was something they hadn't heard. "I'm tired of bakeries not serving us when we're planning our weddings," she declared. I want there to be a place where couples like you two know that they can get good service. I may have to work as an assistant in another bakery for a while to save up the money, but that's what I eventually want."

Sherlock and John had never been prouder. When they went to bed again, they made an agreement. They monitored Rosie's grades when she made it to culinary school and she made them proud every time. Mycroft secured her an internship and she excelled at it. Sherlock began taking money for cases and seeking cases that paid, even if they were boring ones. John worked extra shifts at the clinic. Both of them tightened their belts. At Mrs. Hudson's insistence, they let her chip in.

Finally on the night of her graduation, when they and their friends were clustered around a booth at Angelo's, they presented her with their present. It was one envelope.

Rosie opened it carefully and so slowly they thought they would burst from impatience. The check fell out, and a note with it.

 _To our wonderful daughter Rosie,_

 _According to our numbers, this should be enough to get your bakery started. We're unspeakably proud of you and all that you've accomplished. You are the best thing that has ever happened to either of us and are the most hardworking, kind, and caring person we've ever known. We love you and look forward to trying all the treats you make as a professional baker._

 _Love forever and always,_

 _Dad and Sherlock._

She was choking on tears by the time she finished, and the hug they gave her got the whole restaurant clapping. Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly cheered and joined in.

"A-are you sure?" she asked with a hiccup. "That's—that's so much money."

John held up his hand. "It's an investment. We're investing in a delicious and reliable service for people like us."

"As well as a lifetime of free food," Sherlock joked—somewhat ironically, as he ate less than anybody.

Rosie carefully put the check in her bag. "I'm going to open a bakery with food that's so good, no one will want to go anywhere else."

"We'd expect nothing less," Mrs. Hudson said, and that got them all clapping again as Angelo arrived with their food. As soon as everybody else had begun to dig in, Sherlock and John exchanged a slightly passionate kiss. Not only had they survived parenthood, they had raised a little girl into a grown woman who was making the world a sweeter place in every sense of the word.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Please keep in mind that I am not a professional baker and have written these next chapters based on what I could learn online. Apologies for any inaccuracies.**

He insisted he didn't want a big fuss, but Rosie knew him better than that. He'd say it was no big deal, that the celebrations were supposed to get smaller over the years, but she wouldn't have it. He was her father, and she wouldn't have her bakery or be where she was or who she was without him. She was going to make him the most special treat her own two hands had ever made, and she was going to do it from scratch.

First came the sketching, which was difficult because sketching had never been Rosie's strong suit and because she had to get ahold of the violin and the magnifying glass. Thankfully, a challenging case came along that led to Sherlock crashing hard for three days, and he was sleeping so deeply that the most observant man in England didn't even notice when she entered his room. Once she had gotten the sketches, it was time to gather the ingredients. Chocolate, fondant, blue icing, sugar, flour, baking soda, baking powder, eggs, a pinch of salt…it was going to cost a bit since she wasn't charging him but she didn't care.

After years of asking and him insisting that he didn't bother to form a preference about sweets—they inhibited brain functionality, he insisted—Rosie had finally gotten Sherlock to admit that his favorite flavor was chocolate. Specifically a dark, rich chocolate that Dad could never eat because it was, in his words, "too much of a good thing." She had a feeling the real reason Sherlock hadn't told her was because he knew she would constantly be making dark chocolate foods for him, and between her and Mrs. Hudson his transport would bloat up and lose all of its teeth.

 _He was right about that_ , she thought with a smile as she stirred the batter. Baking was the way Rosie wanted to show her love, the way she _needed_ to show love. Ordinary people might have the ability to know someone's favorite flavor and not bake them a thousand variations of it, but not Rosie.

When the cake was ready to sculpt, Rosie positioned the sketches next to her working station and tried to apply the observation and memorization methods Sherlock had taught her so many times. Like always, it was painstaking—with real pain. In her feet that had been standing for hours, in her back that was bent over, in her fingers that were holding the fondant and the brush ever so carefully, in her shoulders that had to be held at all kinds of angles.

But as soon as it was finished, she took one look and knew it had been worth it.

* * *

"It's your birthday; cake is obligatory," Dad said every year (they were words that Rosie lived by). He said it again now with a smile on his face before Sherlock could even begin to protest. The man had come around to a lot in the last decade. Hence, he was now wearing a birthday hat and sitting in a chair with balloons tied to it while the flat was decorated in streamers, confetti, and what was left of the wrapping paper Sherlock had torn off his presents earlier. It was a small celebration this year since everybody else was either still on their Christmas/New Year holidays or just now coming back from them. That was the joy of having a birthday in early January, as Dad put it.

"That's my contribution," Rosie said, and she got up to fetch it from the kitchen. She had been a nervous wreck getting it to the flat and especially up the stairs. If it had fallen or smashed against a wall she knew she would have either burst into tears or cussed up a storm or done both simultaneously. There was a reason her bakery didn't and would never offer delivery.

But the cake was there, safe and sound and ready to slice. She put the candles in and lit them quickly, gathered it carefully, and called out, "Close your eyes! Dad, make sure he doesn't peek."

When she emerged from the kitchen, Sherlock's eyes were scrunched closed in that way of his—as a detective and observer, he didn't like being told he couldn't look at something and his body language always made sure you knew it. Dad, however, had both his eyes and mouth wide open and followed Rosie as she gently, carefully, meticulously, set the cake down in front of Sherlock.

"Let me guess: it's so tall it reaches the ceiling," Sherlock said with a grin. Rosie rolled her eyes. She _had_ gotten into the habit of trying to make them too tall when she'd been younger.

"It is _amazing_ ," John whispered. "It's a bloody work of art." He pointed to it. "You did this? All by yourself?"

"Of course," Rosie said, warming from the inside out. "Okay birthday boy, open your eyes!"

Sherlock was, for the first time that she could remember, speechless. Those all-seeing icy blue eyes took in the sculpted chocolate cake that resembled his violin so well it could almost pass for the real thing, the tiny bit of leftover batter and fondant that had gone into replicating his magnifying glass, the "Happy Birthday Sherlock" in elegant lettering that was his favorite shade of blue, and all of the tiny details she had put in that they both knew only he would ever notice.

Sherlock began blinking hard. Rosie stiffened; she had expected him to either smile and compliment her work or make a clever and caustic remark. Dad began singing "Happy Birthday" in a soft tone and Rosie joined him. By the time they reached the last verse, Sherlock's eyes were full and his smile was wobbling. When they finished and started clapping, he tried to blow out the candles but found he couldn't get the breath. Rosie and Dad blew them out for him and Sherlock had her in a tight hug before she could even straighten up.

"I love you," he said, and kissed her cheek. "Thank you."

"I hope you like it," she said. "I wanted you and Dad to be my first customers."

"It's almost a shame to eat it, it looks so incredible," Dad said, snapping a few photos with his phone. Sherlock did the same with his and sat down. Rosie grabbed the cake cutter from the drawer, one of her favorite kitchen tools growing up, and began to cut them each a small piece.

"That size should last you at least a week or two," she said proudly, biting into her own slice. She was delighted to find it tasted just right, though she still wondered whether the sugar quantity might be too much.

"Mmm," Sherlock moaned after tasting the chocolate. "I think the likelihood of that just suffered a 78% decline."

"My god," Dad said with his mouth full. "How in the world did you get it to taste so good _and_ look just like his violin?"

Rosie wagged her fork. "I can't reveal my secrets or I'll be out of a job." She smiled, thinking of all they'd done to put her through pastry school and the hours spent YouTubing with Sherlock. "But rest assured, I never would have learned it without the two of you."


	3. Chapter 3

Dad's birthday was slightly less grandiose because, well, he was a slightly less grandiose person, but nevertheless Rosie approached it with the same diligence and determination. The trick with Dad was to take something everyday and ordinary and add enough of a twist that in the end it would be anything but. When she'd asked him what he wanted, he'd requested his favorite classic: a yellow cake—just a sheet, he specified, not tiered—with chocolate frosting and chocolate and rainbow sprinkles.

"You've got paying customers with more demanding orders; I don't want you wearing yourself out on my account," he insisted. He didn't know how good she had gotten at juggling jobs. And anyway, his wouldn't take nearly as much effort as Sherlock's had.

First Rosie began the actual baking process, which was to her as police work was to Sherlock: simple enough that anyone could do it, so it was almost boring. She added just a bit of filling so that when the cake was cut open there would be a line of chocolate in the center of each slice. If there was one thing she couldn't stand in a cake, it was bare slices. That was artless and lazy. When she had finished that and the cake was in the oven, she found herself steepling her fingers and pacing just like Sherlock, trying to think of ways to make it special.

With the right icing and fondant, she could create a pair of dog tags and whatever the symbol for medicine was (some cross thing with a snake?) and put those on top. She would definitely write "Happy Birthday Dad" in red lettering, his favorite color, on top. But what about the sprinkles? The second thing she hated most after bare slices was the travesty of just dumping out a container of the stuff and calling it a day. Such was reserved for small children at Halloween or Christmas; it was not done by a professional baker in her own bakery.

The timer dinged, and for a second Rosie couldn't tell whether the sound came from inside or outside her head, for she'd had an idea. She could tie the sprinkles in with the writing if she wrote in double letters and carefully scattered the sprinkles on the inside.

An hour later, it looked perfect. She'd had a hell of a time trying to make the letters small enough to fit the whole message, but thankfully it wasn't a very long one. She placed the candles, carefully boxed up the cake, and nearly skipped to 221B.

* * *

Rosie and Sherlock loved to go all out for Dad's birthday and spoil him rotten, so she wasn't surprised when the flat was decorated to the nines and that the old breakfast-in-bed tray showed signs of use. Like Sherlock, he insisted on not wanting a fuss, especially now that the idea of being another year older wasn't exactly a pleasant thought. But every time they ignored him he always wore the face of a man who was the happiest on earth.

"Glad to see that box is cake-shaped," he teased her. "I was afraid you were going to take Sherlock's advice and make it into the shape of a gun."

"Heavens no John, that would involve her actually listening to her father," Sherlock joked. "You know we can't have that."

Rosie set the box down and shrugged. "Hey, if I had made you happy I would have disappointed him, but now it's vice versa. There's no pleasing you both, so I decided to please the birthday boy."

"As well you should," Dad said as he sat down at his place of honor where the balloons were tied to the chair. Rosie was delighted to see that he was licking his lips, which Sherlock had taught her long ago was a sign that he was hungry but not willing to say so.

Sherlock handed her the cake slicer. "Please, there's no way this is really an ordinary cake, is it?"

"See for yourselves," Rosie sang, and lifted the lid of the box. Her fathers strained their necks to see, and broke into grins as soon as they had.

"She does it again," Sherlock said. "The near-perfect symmetry of the handwriting and the clever use of sprinkles clearly indicate a master at work." Rosie nearly teared up at the pride in his voice. Her hands, back, and feet were still aching from the work, but praise made it melt away.

"It's beautiful, love," Dad said as he enveloped her in a tight hug and kiss. "I can't wait to taste it."

"My pleasure," Rosie said, and meant it. When the candles had been lit and blown out and serenaded with a song, the three of them sank their teeth into the sweet, sugary yellow cake that blended perfectly with the chocolate filling and frosting. The sprinkles almost bubbled in their mouths and conversation was soon hushed as they gobbled up their respective slices.

The best compliment of all was when both of her fathers reached for a second piece.


	4. Chapter 4

_You are aware their favorite dessert isn't cake, right? – SH_

Rosie rolled her eyes as she texted him back. _I know. I can make lots of other things, don't worry. :)_

What made this project exciting was not just that she'd get a break from cake. And dear God, did she need one. The last month had seen her swamped with orders for bat mitzvahs, graduations, going away parties, and probably plenty of other occasions she couldn't remember and good lord she needed to hire an assistant one of these days. At this point Rosie almost felt like she never wanted to see, smell, taste, or touch another cake again. But that feeling would fade, she knew, especially after a respite. But the even more thrilling part of this work was that Grandma and Grandpa wouldn't be expecting it at all.

The last time Rosie had seen them had been a few years ago. Growing up they had insisted on annual visits, but when she entered culinary and pastry school, she was often so busy that she didn't have time. And the instances when she did always seemed to coincide with when they had planned their line dancing trips. Then there was the added complication of their health; they were in their 80's now and their calendars were filled with doctor appointments and prescription pickups.

If anyone deserved a special treat for making it this far, it was them. And if their sons (and son-in-law, since Dad was guilty of this sometimes too) weren't going to do anything for them, she would. A few texts to Sherlock and Uncle Mycroft and Rosie was soon dropped off at the country house by a private chauffeur. The place was empty as planned, with all of the necessary ingredients waiting for her in the kitchen.

Rosie reveled in the familiar smell of her grandparents' house as she set to work cutting up the fruit and forming the crust. Their home reminded her of an antique store; it had an "old person smell" to it, but it was a good thing. Now the scent of pastry, one of the many things that had attracted her to the baking profession in the first place, was mixing in with it and permeating the air until it all but formed a cloud and wrapped around her.

This was a trickier job than usual because she had never done it before and hadn't made anything like it in a long time, but it was doable. Shaping the dough into the lattice pattern Grandma was so fond of reminded her of sculpting, and she felt the same sense of satisfaction when it was finished and the fruits of her labors (pardon the pun) were slipped into the oven. Now the dull task of cleanup would keep her busy until it was ready.

* * *

Rosie had taken care to slip out and stay by the window by the time Grandma and Grandpa returned home, with Grandma carrying an enormous bouquet and both of them nearly incapable of taking their eyes off each other.

"Now the real celebration begins," Grandpa said with a raise of his eyebrows.

"Oh hush, you," Grandma said, but there was a giggle in it. "I'd say it's time we—oh my, what's this?" They moved to the table and she laid down her bouquet. "My goodness, what a sweetheart she is!"

"Somebody's raised her well," Grandpa agreed. He put his arm around his wife and the two shared another kiss as they gazed at the mixed berry pie with a chocolate crust, topped with vanilla ice cream and just a small hint of chocolate syrup. Just like they'd made for their sons and son-in-law and granddaughter, and just like they'd taught the latter how to make.

The best part was the card in front, which read in neat cursive: _Happy 50_ _th_ _Anniversary! This is a little something to say congratulations and thank you for all you've done for my dads and me. Love, Rosie._


	5. Chapter 5

Despite what Sherlock liked to believe, it wasn't to sabotage his often futile attempts at weight loss. It was more of a thank-you gift that just happened to coincide with his special day. Though only Rosie and Dad would admit it, Uncle Mycroft had done a lot for them. The "strong moral principles" Sherlock swore she had inherited from her father were telling Rosie that when somebody brought you cases, kept you out of jail a number of times, and was generally there for you despite being subjected to verbal abuse every time, that person deserved a bit of thanks.

Setting up her workstation took more time than usual, because the umbrella had to be posed just right. Mostly closed, but open enough to give the suggestion of it being used and enough that you could tell it was an umbrella and not just some sort of walking stick. You'd think a simple black adult-size umbrella would be easy to find, but she'd had to spend a full day in and out of shops before she finally found one close enough. And what was even harder was finding ways to make it all healthier. Nowadays people were wising up about added sugars and carbs and cholesterol and Rosie had her work cut out for her trying to bake gluten-free, sugar-free, egg-free, and diet everything. She planned to include an ingredients list with the final product so Uncle Mycroft wouldn't feel quite so bad eating it.

Red velvet was always an interesting challenge because you had to get the reaction between the butter and cocoa powder just right, and add the red food coloring ever so delicately. She had once challenged Mr. Graduate Chemist Himself to make it, and she and Dad had shared a good laugh when the batter had practically exploded in his face. Rosie smiled fondly at the memory, tucking her golden hair behind her ear as she cracked an egg. _Leave it to Mycroft to pick the most difficult and high-society flavor as his favorite_ , he had grumbled. Rosie never told him she liked red velvet a lot too, and she was struggling not to pop some of the batter into her mouth now.

When her masterpiece-in-progress was baked and chilled and ready for fondant and sculpting, she tried to think what Uncle Mycroft's reaction would be. Maybe he already knew what she was making and when he would receive it; she wouldn't put it past him. Given his lifelong sweet tooth, she had been surprised and slightly disappointed when he had never dropped by her bakery. It wasn't far from where he worked, and if Rosie knew Uncle Mycroft, he probably had 17 cameras positioned somewhere around there and had seen what she could make. For all she knew, maybe he was watching her now.

 _Why is he so distant?_ She always wondered. He sent all three of them checks on their birthdays and at Christmas and called or texted Sherlock when he needed something from him, but otherwise she rarely saw him. Dad had chuckled that nobody was seeing much of him since he was losing more and more of his hair and gaining a few wrinkles. But Rosie wondered if, like Sherlock, he was more of a feeling man than he let on.

After the handle came the hard part: edges and texture. The umbrella didn't have nearly as much as the violin, but it did have a lot of flaps and the black color was hard to replicate. As it was she'd had to use up all of her black icing, which clashed quite a bit with the red velvet and the vanilla filling inside of it. It took hours, and there were a few times when she had to take deep breaths and walk away for a few minutes.

The things she did for family.

But that was what Uncle Mycroft was, whether he and Sherlock liked it or not. And by God, Rosie was going to act like it even if no one else did, if for no other reason than to feel like she'd reciprocated in some way. The money she'd spent on the ingredients didn't come close to the amount he'd given her over the years, but it was something. She was tempted to write _Don't Be a Stranger_ on top.

Finally, _finally_ , it was finished. After showering the crumbs and fondant off of her and cleaning up her workstation, Rosie stepped outside for a bit of fresh air and wasn't surprised to see a long black car with tinted windows come to a stop at the curb. When the door opened, she expected to see a tuxedoed security guard or glorified errand boy, but instead it was Uncle Mycroft himself.

He held up his phone. "This is the sixty-fourth text in two days I've received from my brother. He insists I need to stop by your place of business and refuses to tell me why. Do you know anything about that?"

Rosie smirked. "You mean to tell me you—"

"Don't already know? I have some idea," he said. He pointed his umbrella toward the entrance, ironically close to its likeness. "Would you mind?"

Rosie held the door open for him and watched as he took in what had become her second home in much the same way Sherlock did. She knew he was probably observing the month-long accumulation of dust on the windowsills, the tiny crack in one of the tiles in the corner. "I have something for you," she said before he could comment.

Uncle Mycroft followed her to where the cake still sat unboxed. He looked, possibly for the first time in his adult life, genuinely surprised. His cool gaze shifted between the umbrella in his hand and its imitation in front of him.

"Happy birthday," Rosie said softly. _65 years young._

"Thank you, that's very kind," Uncle Mycroft said after a minute of staring. He turned to Rosie. "You made this yourself?"

"Yes. It's red velvet, your favorite if I'm not mistaken."

Uncle Mycroft tentatively ran a finger along the surface, taking a bit of frosting off and tasting it. "Very fine work," he said, and she caught a hint of eagerness in his words. "I'll certainly enjoy this."

Rosie reached for the boxes she kept behind the counter. "I'll help you take it home so you can start enjoying it right away. Sorry there are no candles."

"That's quite all right, I've never much cared for being surrounded by the same inescapable song year after year," he said with a cynical smile.

"And Uncle Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"You should come by Baker Street sometime."

He underwent a 5-second face journey at those words, going from skeptical to surprised to happy and a little wistful in the blink of an eye. "Oh? Perhaps I will." He held out his arms for the cake and even he couldn't hide the almost childish look of greedy delight in his eyes when it was placed in front of him.

That, and the promise of a visit, was the best part of baking for his birthday.


	6. Chapter 6

"Make it chocolate."

"Hell no, vanilla."

"Chocolate."

"Vanilla."

 _"_ _Cho-co-late."_

 _"_ _Va-nil-la."_

Eighteen years of marriage and it was still the same argument every time, which was why they always ended up buying either two cartons of ice cream or, if money was tight, a carton of Neapolitan which was always left with uneaten strawberry. Sherlock thought vanilla was boring and Dad thought chocolate was all right occasionally but got old quickly.

Thus it was going to be quite a challenge to bake something for both of them. Not that this would stop Rosie. She loved a picky customer like Sherlock loved a tricky case. Somehow she was going to please both of them _and_ give them something they'd never had before. She started by looking up ideas and recipes online and printing out photos of the ones she liked. Those bloggers and Pinterest boards were godsends; much of her best work came from being inspired by their ideas. Next up was ordering a set of special toppers from Etsy and making the usual trip to Tesco to buy the ingredients.

"I'm going to make you the perfect present if it's the last thing I do," she said in a faux-maniacal voice. She really was happy; it wasn't often she got to experiment with layers and combine flavors like this. So many customers nowadays just wanted the stuff of tradition, which was easy enough to make but a little boring too. The artist in her longed to create something special and her wonderful fathers were going to give her the chance, even if they didn't know it yet.

Her round and square pans and two ovens got a workout when she used them to bake several different batters at once. Dad's favorite vanilla and yellow mixes and Sherlock's rich dark chocolate mixes finished around the same time, and by then she had already whipped up the filling and the frosting. Rosie was impatient for them to cool so she could start putting them both together and tried to focus on cleaning instead.

"Soon enough; it'll cool eventually," she told herself. _The last time you got too impatient, you ruined the whole thing and had to start all over, you git._

Finally the baking ingredients were put away, the bowls were washed—after being licked, of course—the counter was wiped and the cakes were sufficiently cool. Now was the filling still warm? Yes it was, perfect, she wouldn't even need to microwave it. But just as she'd excitedly reached for the spreader, she was confronted with a question.

"Now do I want chocolate on top or vanilla on top?" Whichever she chose, it was going to make someone unhappy when they first saw the cake. The other would think Rosie had listened to him and that he was the "cool dad," which was a ridiculous notion because while she loved her fathers dearly, she could not in good faith consider either of them "cool."

There was only one solution: she'd have to do half-and-half.

After rearranging her counter so she'd have enough space, Rosie carefully spread out one of her large boxes and set the cakes into it. The two round ones fit nicely with the square one, and they cut easily with her carving knife. On went the filling, and from there Rosie grinned and stacked the cake slices one on top of the other like a child playing with blocks. The filling gradually cooled, keeping the chocolate and vanilla layers together, and Rosie pushed the round (or rather, half round at this point) and square cakes closer again to retain the overall shape.

At last it was time for the decoration. Vanilla and chocolate for their respective sides and rainbow sprinkles arranged in mini hearts. If it had been up to Rosie, she would have used red sprinkles to go along with the theme, but both Sherlock and Dad were partial to rainbow. To make up for it, she added a decorative red border along the edges of the cake to make its shape more prominent and wrote a message with red frosting. At last she sunk the toppers into the surface and stood back.

It was, in her completely objective, impartial, and unbiased opinion, one of her best works yet.

* * *

She had barely opened the door before Sherlock was shouting, "Chocolate, John! I smell it, I was right. Our daughter made us a _chocolate_ cake." He sounded so smug that Rosie giggled.

"I might have," she said, setting it down on the table. After hugging him and Dad, she put her hand on the lid. "Are you two ready for something delicious?"

"Love, we are never not ready for your food," Dad assured her. "Especially free food. _Vanilla_ food."

"Choco—"

"Shut up."

"Oh, just see for yourselves!" Rosie said through her giggles, and lifted the lid. Her fathers crowded her on both sides and peered inside.

Their faces lit up when they saw the heart shape and their miniature likenesses standing on top of it. Dad tapped the head of the blonde one that was supposed to be him, and Rosie rolled her eyes. "They didn't have any sets with a height difference, Dad."

"Well, I was _half_ right," Sherlock insisted. "It's half chocolate."

"Both inside and out," Rosie said.

"Never mind that, I just love the message," Dad said. "Happy 18th Anniversary. Thank you so much."

"Eighteen years is an accomplishment," Rosie said. Her impatience got the better of her and she began slicing a piece. "Look, see?"

"Chocolate and vanilla stacked on top of each other with alternating fillings. You _are_ clever," Sherlock beamed with pride. "Thank you. I'm sure we'll both enjoy this."

Rosie hugged them both. "Should I leave the two of you alone now? Seeing as you're both still in your pajamas, I'm guessing your plans didn't involve other people."

Dad started to say no, but Sherlock quickly said, "Yes please." He winked at Dad. "I have every intention of making sure he eats this cake."

 _And that's my cue to get the hell out of here,_ Rosie thought and rushed out with hurried goodbyes. But not before she caught them moving to hold each other in a way that showed she'd have many more anniversaries to bake for.


	7. Chapter 7

One of Rosie's favorite and most special projects of the year was baking for the birthday girl of Baker Street, and unlike the birthday boys, she had no problem stating exactly what she wanted.

 _"_ _I like your vanilla cupcakes with white frosting and rainbow sprinkles. Ooh either that or funfetti! I just love funfetti."_

Mrs. Hudson didn't get out much anymore. At 98 years old, she didn't do much of anything, and her tenants were grateful for having been able to enjoy her presence this long. Sherlock and Dad cared for her like sons to a mother, making her tea and helping her clean and picking up her prescriptions. Both they and Rosie cooked for her at least a few times a week, just as she had cooked for them so many times.

Dad's time in the military and as a doctor had forced him to get used to seeing people's bodies begin to slowly shut down, and his parents had died young as well. That didn't mean it wasn't hard, but he had learned to accept and deal with it. Sherlock, on the other hand, was not at all prepared for seeing Mrs. Hudson start to lose her vision, her hearing, her teeth, her memory, her mind. Not to mention her mobility. Her hip had always been a problem, but in recent years it had turned her into a homebody. She had burst into tears when her doctor finally told her she couldn't climb the stairs to 221B anymore. Sherlock had no idea what to do, so he tried everything. He found her three new doctors who all said the same thing, offered to carry her up the stairs himself, demanded Mycroft investigate pharmaceutical companies to ensure they weren't holding back a cure, and was about to hire an architect to redesign the entire building so it would be one story and wheelchair accessible before Dad took him aside and talked him down.

As for Rosie? She cried when she was in the privacy of her own home and baked when she wasn't. Rosie brought Mrs. Hudson treats from the bakery all the time. Croissants, cannoli's, eclairs, Danishes, scones, muffins, cupcakes, cinnamon rolls, pies, pudding, strudels, tarts, cobblers, chocolate covered fruits and fondue, biscuits, brownies, and leftover pieces of cake. They always put a smile on the landlady's face. Rosie made damn sure to do this at least twice a week, no matter how busy she was.

And now she had the privilege of baking for her birthday, one of the few things Mrs. Hudson could still look forward to. The only trick would be combining vanilla and funfetti, and deciding the best way to arrange the design. Probably best to add it as a filling.

 _"_ _You're just what those boys needed,"_ Mrs. Hudson's oft-repeated saying floated around Rosie's head while she worked, filling the cupcake papers with vanilla and funfetti. _"If you hadn't come along and forced them to be together, I don't wonder if they'd still be 'just mates.'"_

Rosie wondered how true that was. Sure, a father and godfather—who later became and in her mind always had been another father—wanting to spend time with their little girl and each other was sure to bring people closer together. But Mrs. Hudson was the one who encouraged them to talk to each other, assured each one that the other would always be there, like a mother to two lost boys.

She had volunteered to babysit so they could have time alone together; Rosie remembered that well. Mrs. Hudson had nurtured her love of baking and played board games with her and read to her. Dad often said she was the mother that both his ex-wife and his own mother should have been.

Her oven mitts were getting wet with all of this remembering.

* * *

 _"_ _You always want to take it out of the oven before you think it might be done. If it's not, you can always put it back in, but if it's burned, you can't go back."_ Almost every time she baked, Rosie could hear Mrs. Hudson's old adages in her head. Sometimes she thought the lessons she'd learned from her landlady could rival the training she'd had at school. She tried to recall what she'd said about her preferences when it came to decorating now that the cupcakes were cooling.

"Vanilla frosting and sprinkles for a top-up," Rosie murmured. There had been one Mother's Day when she'd spelled out a message with cake toppers, and though Mrs. Hudson had been delighted as always, she seemed more in awe of handwritten letters. Rosie reached for her purple icing and once the cupcakes had been frosted, she wrote one letter on each cupcake until it spelled out _Happy Birthday Mrs. Hudson_. She had baked two dozen, so there were still two left. With these she drew the outline of a heart, scattered rainbow sprinkles inside the heart, and wrote the letter U on the remaining cupcake. The sprinkles were used as border decoration on the other cupcakes. Last but not least, she arranged them in her tiered gift basket that she used for customers and covered it with a cloth that was tied shut with multi-colored ribbons on it.

When Dad arrived to pick her up, he took one look at the basket and pulled her into a tight hug. "She's gonna love it," he said happily.

"I hope they're half as good as what she can make," Rosie said.

* * *

The door to 221A was always unlocked now. Sherlock opened the door before they arrived, having heard them coming, and helped them bring the basket inside. Mrs. Hudson was almost buried under blankets and her oxygen machine was cradled between her wrinkled, arthritic hands. Rosie tried not to notice how stringy and grey her hair had gotten and what a beautiful shade of gold it used to be.

"Oh, how lovely to see you, Rosie," she said. "And you brought me some sweets from your bakery; you're such a dear."

"This is just a little something to celebrate your birthday." Rosie began undoing the cloth. "Everyone deserves a sweet something." The beautiful, genuine smile on her face made her own waver a bit.

When the cloth fell, Mrs. Hudson leaned forward and nearly squealed. "Vanilla cupcakes with the white frosting and rainbow sprinkles! And the writing is so neat and—thank you, Rosie, thank you so much. This is the best." She held out her arms and Rosie nearly jumped at how fierce her embrace still was.

"Surely it's not better than the presents John and I provided?" Sherlock joked. "That tea set was imported from Japan."

Mrs. Hudson wagged a finger. "Now you know I appreciate the thought, but you also know I don't approve of you paying for it with your big brother's credit card."

"It's okay, he owes me." They all laughed. Somehow it seemed that despite Mycroft's considerably larger bank account, he always "owed" Sherlock something.

"Just wait until you try one, Mrs. H," Rosie said. "There's a nice surprise inside."

Mrs. Hudson put her hands together like a little schoolgirl. "I can't wait. John, would you be a dear and hand me one?"

"Of course." He took one of the biggest cupcakes from the top, the one with the A on it, and placed it in Mrs. Hudson's hands.

"Nice and soft," she said. Rosie nodded. She had made it that way on purpose to be easier on the few teeth Mrs. Hudson had left. As she was licking up the frosting and moaning her compliments, she waved at Sherlock and Dad to try some too, and they did.

"Now let's see this surprise," she said excitedly as she peeled the paper and took a bite. She gasped with her mouth full. "Funfetti!"

"That's right," Rosie said as she put her arm around her shoulders. "There's funfetti in the middle for some extra fun."

"Of course there was. Perfectly obvious from the start," Sherlock lied, and they laughed again.

Mrs. Hudson sighed happily. "I'm so glad I taught you to bake. You're even better at it than I am."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"No, you are. And I'm so lucky to have a family like the three of you."

"And we're glad you're here," Dad said, and the unspoken _still_ hung in the air so thickly that Sherlock quickly said, "Happy birthday."

"It is indeed," Mrs. Hudson said, polishing off the rest of her cupcake. "But with sons and a granddaughter like mine, every day feels that way. And that's true no matter how old I get."


	8. Chapter 8

Rosie was starting to think she'd never have the chance to bake a wedding cake for anybody she knew...until she did.

Wedding cakes were the toughest and tallest—literally and figuratively—orders of all. Birthdays, holidays, and anniversaries came every year, but a wedding was once in a lifetime and cake was tradition. A poorly made wedding cake was _never_ forgiven or forgotten. Excited though she was, Rosie couldn't help trembling a bit. There had been quite a few special requests for this cake, including sugar flowers, lacework, edgings, edible jewelry, and a bow, and the cake itself was supposed to be classic white, 5 tiers tall, and with figures on top. All of which she'd had prior practice with, fortunately.

The saving grace was that she had been given a lot of Pinterest and catalog photos to go on, which she did her best to memorize before sketching out what the final product would look like. This was going to be a 36-hour job at least, and then she had to actually attend the wedding. _Thank God Dad and Sherlock are helping out._

In spite of all this, however, Rosie found herself humming one of Sherlock's compositions as her bakery became more cluttered and hot than it ever had, even during the busy times of the year. It was nice to be able to do something for the person who had been there so much for her growing up. Besides, she loved making sugar flowers and so rarely got the chance to do them. Shame they had to come last, but if they didn't she would never get everything else on. First lacework, then jewelry, then borders, then toppers, sugar flowers, bow.

For the next few hours it was measure, pour, stir, pour, oven, timer, repeat. Measure…pour…stir…pour…oven…timer…repeat. The place was sweltering even with the windows open. Rosie's stomach was roaring for food; it truly was torturous sometimes being surrounded by the stuff but not being able to eat any of it. She reached for her phone.

 _Been working for hours and still have a long way to go. Really need a few things; can you two come early?_

She had a response in seconds. _Of course. What should we bring? – SH_

 _Food that won't make a mess or take too long to eat, cold water, and a fan. And something that will get rid of the cramps in my muscles. Thanks!_

By the time the tiers were finished and put together, the front bell chimed and Dad and Sherlock came in carrying bags. "Looks great," Dad said. "And delicious."

"Oh, it's not much to look at right now," Rosie said. "I've only been able to do a little bit of decorating in between batters and making the jewelry."

"You're exhausted," Sherlock said, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Take a break, you'll do better for it."

"You're one to talk," Rosie said, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Like him, she hated leaving any job unfinished.

"He's right," Dad said as he handed her a water bottle, which she gulped down. "Last thing this family needs is two workaholics ruining their health."

Rosie sat down—oh, it felt so good to sit down—at the table used for customer taste testing and began eating the sandwiches they'd brought her. "I just want it to be perfect."

"It will be, you always do great work," Dad reassured her. He moved to stand behind her and Rosie felt her shoulders vibrate and she almost jumped. "Relax, love. I picked up this muscle reliever a while back. Comes in handy when the surgery makes me work a double."

Her shoulders were already loosening. "Thank you," she said. "Now I just wish I could take a bath. But there's no time."

"Then we'll take over," Sherlock said.

Rosie snorted. "You decorate a wedding cake?"

"Surely we can do something," Dad insisted.

She smiled and put her hand on his. When she'd finished the last bite of her sandwich, she told him, "You've already done enough. Just knowing someone else will be delivering the cake and having this water and fan to cool off is a huge help."

"Rosie," Sherlock said, and both she and Dad straightened up. You knew Sherlock was serious when he called her Rosie (or when she was in trouble, Rosamund) instead of Watson and when he spoke in that soft voice. "Please let us help you. The last thing you want is to show up to the wedding sweaty, sleep-deprived, and unhappy."

She could almost feel her eyes misting at that. _I really have the best dads._ "Can you clean up, put the baking ingredients and measuring tools away, and put the figures on top of the cake just like in the picture?"

"Done," they both said, and Rosie hugged them hard.

* * *

The back of the bakery had a room marked Employees Only that was supposed to look like a supply room but in fact had a bed, a mini fridge, and a very small tub. It had come in handy on those weeks when Rosie was so busy that she pretty much lived at work. A quick hair wash and power nap later, she was feeling ready to get back to it.

Dad greeted her with a cup of what looked like strong coffee. "This is the stuff that got me through med school," he said with a smile. "Don't worry, I made sure he didn't add anything to it."

"That was one time, John!" Sherlock said, and Rosie saw that he was standing on her step ladder and ever so gently placing the figures of the two brides side by side. The counters were immaculate and she had no doubt Sherlock had organized her ingredients as thoroughly as he did his sock index at home.

"Thank you both so much," she said, and sipped the coffee, which was indeed a huge help in waking up. "Now I need to decorate for real."

"Good luck. We'll go home and get dressed, and we'll bring your wedding clothes with us when we come back to pick up the cake." Dad kissed her cheek and Sherlock followed suit once the figures were firmly in place. As soon as the bell chimed again, Rosie cracked her knuckles and started the lacework.

The first bit was the hardest since she was terrified of messing up, but once it was done and she had something to look at, it went downhill from there. It was simply a matter of making tiny strokes and paying attention to the details. She grinned imagining how well it would match the brides' wedding dresses. When it was finally finished hours later, the jewelry went on easily, and all that was left were the borders, sugar flowers, and bow. The borders were her favorite thing to do and always took her back to the many happy hours she would spend doing them with had dads, Mrs. Hudson, and the bride-to-be. They were what made a baked good festive.

Sugar flowers were trickier, but thankfully she didn't need to do a lot of them and they were much more uniform than lacework. Rosie rolled the gum paste as thin as she could get it, putting her back into it and pressing down hard, arranged the petals while glancing back and forth at the sketch, and pressed them together before letting them dry. Normally she would have made these a lot sooner to give them more time to dry, but the cake wasn't going to be eaten for a good while after the reception.

Finally, the bow.

Rosie started to put it on and had to stop three times because her hands were shaking. The lacework and borders were so delicate that even a slight smudge or mistake would wreck the whole thing.

 _Come on Rosie, you can do it._ How many times had she said that? When Rosie had been studying for a tough test or exercising or, she'd been told, taking her first steps. They'd spent so many afternoons together, it was like having an older sister or a second mum after Mrs. Hudson. They'd read _The Little Engine That Could_ all the time when she was little, and now Rosie focused on repeating, "I think I can, I think I can" as she mounted the stepladder, wound the ribbon around the cake like a lasso, and gently set the bow on the third tier, right in the middle.

It was _finished!_

Rosie was leaping for joy just as her phone rang. "As of this second, your cake is ready for you!"

"Oh my gosh, is it really? Thank you! Thank you so much; is it all right if I come by to take a look at it?"

"I'd be honored."

* * *

The limo could be seen from one end of her front window to the other, and Rosie was already holding the door open by the time Molly stepped out. Her snow-white dress with lace just like the cake's clashed nicely with her greying chestnut hair, which was falling around her shoulders in gentle curls.

"How beautiful!" Rosie rushed to hug her and take in the fruity perfume she was cloaked in.

"Thank you," Molly said, sounding emotional already. "I know it's early, but I just couldn't wait. Still have to get my makeup done though."

"I don't even think you need to. You're already gorgeous—unlike me, who still needs to get ready. But wait until you see the cake!"

"Oh yes, I'm so excited." Molly gathered her skirts, shut the limo door, and walked as quickly as one could in heels into the bakery. "I've been dreaming of this day since I was eight years old, though I have to say I thought I'd be younger. And I never dreamed it would be with a woman."

"Hey, you're never too old to be with the one you love or figure out who you are," Rosie said. Her dads had taught her that much. She pointed to the counter. "There it is."

Molly's hands flew to her cheeks. "Oh Rosie," she breathed, coming closer. "It's…it's everything I wan…I knew you were good but I never dreamed… _wow_."

Rosie snuck her arms around Molly's waist. "After all those times you babysat me, baked with me, and made sure my dads knew which pads to buy, it was the least I could do."

Molly squeezed Rosie's wrist. "Thank you. You really do make the most beautiful cakes. Shame you weren't old enough to make one for your dads' wedding."

 _Not really. This one took enough out of me as an adult_ , she thought. Still, as soon as she saw Molly wipe her eyes upon seeing her likeness at the top, she knew she wouldn't hesitate to do this over and over again.


	9. Chapter 9

As soon as Rosie realized Dad had his Tesco bag and was walking out of the flat, she felt inclined to stop him. "You're not going to buy candy there, are you?"

He paused just above the stairs. "Yeah, I'm going to get some stuff for the kids who come by here. There aren't many since it's right here in the city, but ya know, enough that I want to have a few things."

She leaped to her feet. "Oh Dad, let me bake something!" The summer wedding and graduation rush was long over and work had been a bit slow for a while. "Please?"

He smiled and shook his head. "Rosie, Halloween is for candy, not cakes and pastries."

"For your information, you would be _amazed_ at what I can do with candy." Rosie folded her arms. "I can make you treats so good kids will be swarming this flat all night."

"Well in that case, I'm definitely going to Tesco," Dad joked, but he set his bag down and shrugged. "All right. If you think you can do better and you have the time, I'd love for you to make something."

"Yes!" Rosie jumped just like Sherlock did when he had a case higher than an 8. "You'll see. Just promise you and Sherlock will be here to taste it and pass it out with me?"

"At the moment we don't have any plans, but you know Sherlock. It's damn near impossible to pin him down."

"As if I would ever miss Watson's culinary expertise!" Sherlock called from the bedroom. He emerged in his dressing gown and bedhead, having caught up on sleep after pulling two all-nighters for a case. Rosie loved his smile. "Of course I'll be there, though I find trick-or-treating significantly more boring now that you're not doing it."

When you grew up with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as your parents, Halloween was a blast. Sherlock knew all kinds of famous criminals to dress up as and every year he would rope Dad and Mrs. Hudson into helping him make her a costume. Dad would decorate the flat, rent scary movies for them to watch, and always find her a place to trick-or-treat even if it meant having to take the tube a ways.

Now, she supposed, it was time to return the favor.

* * *

There really was a lot you could do with candy, both as a baking ingredient and a decoration. In fact, Rosie thought it was one of the more underused resources in the baking world, which was partly why she had jumped at the chance to experiment with it.

A quick Google search brought up recipes and ideas for candy cake, candy cupcakes, and candy biscuits—or cookies, since most were from American bakers. Rosie spent a good five minutes deliberating which one to make before she finally decided: fuck it, she'd make all of them.

The first thing to do was to make a trip not to Tesco, but to the M&M's World in Leicester Square. It was expensive, it was crowded, it was a tourist trap, and she loved it. Coming here was one of her greatest memories as a little girl, and probably one of her fathers' worst. Sherlock hated pretty much all touristy places and the people in them, and although Dad liked M&Ms, he was never willing to stand in lines and fight crowds for them when, as he put it, the ones at Tesco were perfectly good and a lot less money.

Rosie, however, happily filled her bag with M&Ms of every color, and filled another bag with orange and black ones. Then she popped into a regular candy store to buy a few pieces of chocolate and peanut butter cups. By the time she was finished, her load was getting heavy and she was grateful to get on the tube and then get to her bakery and shut the door with the _Closed_ sign on it.

The biscuits and cupcakes were simple and straightforward; just put the candy in with the dough or stick them in the frosting after the treats were done. Rosie did some of both and was pleased with the results of each. The cake, however, was where she really wanted to get creative.

After baking a funfetti cake loaded with M&Ms and Reese's, she began breaking KitKats and other chocolate bars into pieces and standing them up until they circled the cake. This was more difficult than she'd anticipated because they kept falling over, but she managed it. Next she drowned the top of the chocolate frosting-covered cake under an onslaught of M&Ms and Reese's Pieces and and stuck a few swirled lollipops inside, positioned so that the sticks were crossing each other. Some of the chocolate bars fell over again, and it was clear something was needed to tie them together.

Rosie started to reach for her bow when she remembered: licorice.

She had bought it in several different colors and had picked out the kind that was thin and long because it was more flexible. It took a few tries, but at last she managed to secure them around the candy bars and tie them into bows.

Maybe she was biased, but Rosie was thoroughly pleased.

* * *

"Really went all out, didn't you," Dad said when he met her at the door, though to her relief he sounded more impressed than annoyed. If he wasn't used to her going the extra five miles when it came to baking by now, he never would be.

"You like it?" she asked, setting the sweets on the table he'd set out. Dad didn't like making multiple trips up and down the stairs, so in recent years he had taken to just sitting outside and keeping the candy next to him. Sherlock was more or less forced to join him since was the main attraction. Dad liked to complain good-naturedly that they'd never had trick-or-treaters before Sherlock became a famous detective and now they had kids knocking on their door all night.

"Yeah, it looks good." He started to reach for a cupcake and Rosie swat his hand away.

"Stop that! These are for the children."

"Oh come on, you're telling me your old man can't have _one_? Unlike those would-be beggars, I've actually done something to earn this stuff."

Rosie giggled and bat his hand away again. "I remember that just-one-piece shtick you pulled when I was trick-or-treating. Next thing I knew, half my candy would be gone."

"Actually some of that was Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft," Sherlock's voice came from behind them. He gave Rosie a quick kiss on the side of the head. "They swiped your candy a few times. Mycroft I tried to stop but he'd usually be halfway to digestion by the time I opened my mouth."

"Thieves, the whole lot of them," Rosie said, and sat down next to Dad. The sky was already getting dark and the last few customers were leaving Speedy's. Sherlock brought another chair from 221A (Mrs. Hudson was with her sister for the week) and sat beside them.

The first trick-or-treaters came by a few minutes later: a princess, a ghost, and a pumpkin. They held out their bags and before they could finish saying "Trick-or-Treat!" Rosie was holding out the plates to them.

"What would you like? A candy biscuit, a candy cupcake, or a piece of candy cake?"

"Wow!" one of them said.

"That's way better than candy!" said another, and he grabbed a biscuit. The others took a cupcake. After being prompted by their parents, they thanked her and went on their way. Rosie nudged her father.

"And you wanted to buy from Tesco. For shame!"

"All right all right, I swear I will never buy another sweet from there again. From now on, I'll only come to you."

"Be prepared to be swamped with orders," Sherlock joked. "Oh, hello," he said to a man who was lingering in front of them.

"How much?" he asked.

"Oh, these aren't for sale; they're for trick-or-treaters." As soon as she saw the downturn of his lip, Rosie felt bad.

"I see. So adults can't have any?"

"Sure they can," Sherlock said, and got up. "Adults get one of these." And Rosie smiled when he took one of Rosie's bakery business cards out of his pocket and handed it to the man. "Open Monday through Saturday, ten to five."

"Thanks," the man said slightly unenthusiastically before leaving them. They barely had time to laugh over the encounter before a crowd of costumed kids began to come up from another direction, with some whispering "There he is, there's Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective."

Sherlock sighed and just as he seemed to resign himself to facing his fame, Rosie held up the plate of cake. "Hey kids, look what I have for you!"

That was all it took for them to forget all about Sherlock Holmes the famous detective and flock to Rosie, who gladly cut them each a slice of cake with M&Ms and Reese's Pieces spilling over the sides. "This is the best thing I've gotten all night," one of them declared.

The cake was a mess by the time they were finished with it, and with a little more begging Rosie let Dad and Sherlock eat the rest. "You really will be our one-stop-shop for sweets," Dad said.

"And for getting rid of the public," Sherlock added. He reached for the cupcakes and held them in front of him as if for protection. Rosie sat back and let herself relax in the knowledge that giving out candy could actually be as nice a time as collecting it.


	10. Chapter 10

The morning of December 1st, her phone lit up with a text saying _Getting ready to put up the decorations and roping your dad into helping. Interested in joining us? – SH_

Rosie had trained him well.

If there was one thing Sherlock and Dad had learned upon becoming parents, it was that you never, under any circumstances, skipped or skimped on Christmas (or Hanukkah or whatever your big holiday was) when you had a child. Before she came along, according to Dad, they would put a Santa hat on Billy The Skull, enjoy Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, and maybe if he was in the mood Sherlock would play a few carols for friends. They didn't always have a tree and had only recently begun exchanging presents.

After Rosie was born, they had a tree every year and made an event out of buying it and decorating it, and the flat was decked with boughs of holly, stockings, poinsettias, and other seasonal items. They watched Christmas movies on telly and gave presents to each other and their friends, and not only did Sherlock play carols every year, sometimes Rosie was even able to talk him into going caroling with her and some of the neighbors (not Dad though; he was too self-conscious about his singing). Sherlock had resisted it all at first, sharing some of his brother's disdain for the tradition and sentimentality of it all, but after seeing how much Rosie would jump around and light up and hug him at any one of these things, he began to get as into it as she was.

The best part—next to Christmas morning, of course—was their Christmas Eve party.

* * *

Sherlock was already opening the boxes by the time she arrived, and a frayed elf hat was perched on top of his curly head. Both he and Dad were in their robes and the latter was sipping tea while reading the paper. Rosie had barely finished greeting them when they both asked, "So what are you going to make?"

"What?"

"For the Christmas party," Dad said with a knowing smile.

"Surely you're planning to grace our guests with your baking, aren't you?" Sherlock asked.

Rosie grinned. "I might do. What would you like?"

"Biscuits," said Sherlock at the same time that Dad said, "Fruit tarts."

They turned to look at each other and before Rosie could stop them they were saying "Biscuits!" "Fruit tarts!" "Biscuits!" "Fruit tarts!" She laughed and shook her head.

"All right, all right, I'll make both," she said loudly.

"Mrs. Hudson or Molly always bring biscuits; it only makes sense for you to make something else," Dad grumbled.

"I'll make both," she insisted. She started to ask what kind before remembering that Sherlock would say chocolate chip and Dad would say oatmeal raisin and then they'd start up again. Sometimes she thought it was a wonder they were ever able to have meals together. "And Greg likes my sugar biscuits, right?"

"Who?" Sherlock asked.

 _"_ _Lestrade,"_ they answered. Sherlock grinned and began hanging the stockings. Rosie sat down and started untangling the colored Christmas lights. She was tempted to start humming carols already. The Christmas Eve party was a small one, consisting of the three of them, Mrs. Hudson, Molly and her wife, Stella; Greg, and on very rare occasions, Mycroft. One year Anderson had joined them as well, but his obsessively following Sherlock around and badgering him about his cases had led to him never being invited back. Every year they gathered in 221B, sipped wine, listened to Sherlock play and occasionally sang along, and stuffed their faces with sweets. There had been talk of hosting it in 221A this year to make it easier on Mrs. Hudson, but the woman wouldn't hear of it. "I'm going upstairs or I'm not going," she said firmly, and Sherlock and Dad agreed to carry her with Greg's help.

"Oh yeah, he loves them," Dad said, disrupting her memories. "Can't get enough of your sugar biscuits. And Molly's peanut butter."

"Which she'll begin baking for us all again on the 23rd," Sherlock said without turning away from the mantle. They didn't bother asking how he'd figured that one out.

With the lights untangled, Rosie moved to unpacking the boxes that held the wreaths and holly. Dad set aside his tea and fetched his tool set from his closet, and Sherlock's little pout wasn't lost on Rosie. For all that he was a genius, Posh Boy was useless with even the simplest of home improvement supplies. One time he had tried to use a hammer and a nail and they'd very nearly been forced to have the whole wall redone. Rosie wasn't much better and never cared for handyman work anyway, so it was left to Dad to do the hanging and drilling and stepladder climbing and other odd jobs like these. Thankfully he was used to working with his hands and good at it.

Rosie got up and held the ladder for him while he mounted it and began stringing along the holly. "So we've got biscuits and fruit tarts. Anything else?"

Dad grunted from reaching so high—even with the ladder his height made this tricky. "Greg said he's bringing lava cakes."

"Mm, good," Sherlock said. The man never could get enough dark chocolate.

"Sounds like an impressive spread," Rosie said, her stomach rumbling at the thought of all of that delicious food. "But I think I'll bring just one more thing. Surprise everybody with something new, you know?"

"Pie," Sherlock immediately guessed. "Cake? Cupcakes?"

Rosie giggled at how serious he looked. "You still can't grasp the meaning of the word _surprise_ , can you?"

"Sugar plums? Pudding?"

"You'll see! You just have to wait until Christmas Eve like everybody else."

"Custard!"

"Love, he is undoubtedly going to find out," Dad said with a laugh as he climbed down. "He'll probably break into your bakery to do it."

Rosie was already formulating a plan.

* * *

The weeks before Christmas passed quickly. Holiday seasons were always a busy time and she handed off order after order to harried customers who were bundled up against a winter even colder than usual. This resulted in her mostly shopping online this year, which, contrary to what Mrs. Hudson said, did _not_ take all the fun out of it. In fact, Rosie thought there was far more fun to be had in cuddling on the couch with a laptop, a blanket, and a cup of hot cocoa than fighting through crowds and traffic while lugging around heavy packages.

When at last Christmas Eve came, she had an excuse to close early and begin baking. She liked to start as late as possible so the food could be fresh. The biscuits went quickly; she had baked them so many times as a kid (from her own recipe, no less) that she barely even had to think about them. In no time they were finished, cooled, and packed away while they were still warm.

The fruit tarts were trickier because they meant having to divide the dough and pat out the crusts before making the filling and glaze and cutting the fruit. Fruit was expensive and not easy to get this time of year, but by going to the shops early in the week Rosie had managed to snag berries, kiwi, and sliced mango. She arranged them by grouping dark colors next to light for contrast, applied whipped cream generously, and stuck them in the fridge.

All this time her phone had lit up every few seconds with _Croissants? – SH. Fruit cake? – SH. Gingerbread? – SH. Chocolate covered strawberries? – SH. Cinnamon rolls? – SH. Something with marshmallows? – SH._ None of which were bad ideas, but Rosie had made many of those things (especially gingerbread men and gingerbread houses; God she was sick of the stuff) for her customers. She had a better idea that she wanted to try, but before she could try it she would need to check for spies.

A quick sweep of the place revealed no homeless network or government agents crouched in corners. If there were hidden cameras, they were so tiny she couldn't see them. It was lucky that Uncle Mycroft loathed Christmas enough to refuse his brother any help with the matter or she wouldn't have stood a chance. She checked the streets outside. Nothing unusual. Finally deciding it was safe, Rosie headed to her bottom cabinets to get the pan she needed.

The foot was what made her scream.

Not for too long though, as it was a familiar foot that moved back quickly and was revealed to be attached to her sheepish-but-also-quite-proud-of-himself-looking father. _"Sherlock!"_

"Hello, Watson."

"Get out! What are you doing in there?"

"Surely you can deduce that for yourself," he said as he curled up and carefully scooted out from his cramped quarters.

She tried to look stern and failed. "You are unbelievable."

"So I've heard." He grabbed the stool she kept behind the counter and plopped himself down on it with his hands clasped in front of him. "Carry on. Just pretend I'm not here."

"Sherlock."

"Pleeease?" He stuck out his lower lip and batted his long lashes. "It's Christmas," he said in a slightly whiny tone.

Rosie was torn between giving in and kicking him out when she had an idea. "We'll compromise." She kept a bandana near her workstation that she sometimes used to tie her hair back while working and she grabbed it now. "You'll observe with one of your senses hindered." Sherlock, who of course was quick on the uptake, smiled in agreement and shut his eyes as she tied the bandana around them. "Let's see how good a detective you are."

* * *

That was some of the most fun Rosie ever had baking. Every time something touched the counter or she stirred, Sherlock commented on it. "One of your ingredients is light and multiple, probably crushed biscuit or something of that nature. Your strokes indicate a small mixing bowl. Hmm, I smell mint. Interesting."

Rosie had fun messing with him as well. Every now and then she would rattle a bag or run a whisk around the bottom of a mixing bowl she wasn't using to confuse him, though he rarely fell for it. He had kept guessing everything under the sun until finally the timer on the oven was getting low, her workspace was clean, and the delicious aroma was unmistakable.

"Brownies!" he finally shouted with a finger in the air.

Rosie removed his blindfold and let him stand up from the stool. "Not just any brownies. These are special Christmas edition brownies with extra fudge and crushed candy canes."

"Just as I thought," Sherlock said, and Rosie swatted him with the bandana. "You did not!" she retorted as the timer dinged. He helped her take the pan out and set it on the heating pad she'd placed on the counter. She looked at her creation for a minute and was pleased with it, but it was still too plain.

Sherlock, brilliant git he was, read her mind and handed her tubes of red and green icing and Christmas sprinkles. "Have at it," he said fondly.

"Thank you," Rosie said, and wrote _Merry Christmas_ in alternating colors and lightly—brownies weren't supposed to be overloaded with decoration, after all—dropped a few sprinkles on top. With Sherlock's help, she covered the top of the pan with foil and bundled it up with the biscuits and fruit tarts.

"I don't know why anyone bothers cooking Christmas Eve dinner when they could easily make a meal out of your desserts," Sherlock told her while they walked out of the bakery together.

"Well, it isn't just me. Everyone pitches in," she reminded him and set her boxes down to lock the door. "That's what Christmas is about, you know: everyone giving and receiving."

Sherlock nodded and wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. The two of them hailed a cab and huddled together on their way home, hardly able to wait for the night ahead and the morning after.


	11. Chapter 11

Rosie screamed when Molly told her the news. "I'm so happy for you, you have no idea. Oh my god I can't believe it, _congratulations_!" Her voice reached a pitch she didn't know it could. With her heart pumping, vision blurring, fingers squeezing the phone, and feet begging to jump, she could only imagine how Molly must be feeling.

"Thank you," Molly said. "I'm sad I have to quit my job, but at my age this stuff is riskier, so I need to take it easy and avoid chemicals. But Rosie, listen. I wondered if you would bake something for me."

Was she kidding? "Of course, anything!" Rosie said happily, ignoring the looks her waiting customers were giving her. "Name your dish."

"Oh you know me, I can never decide between carrot cake and brownies," Molly laughed.

"I'll make them both."

"You will?"

"Of _course_! This is huge. Your dream come true. When do you want it?"

"A little before Christmas," Molly said. "Maybe a few weeks before. Between the two of you, I'll have the perfect presents." Rosie could hear a suppressed happy sob in there.

"You got it. Can I go shopping with you sometime too?"

"It's a date."

* * *

Waiting until December was hard, and if Rosie had only had the money, she would have bought Molly everything on her registry. They and Molly's wife Stella shopped for everything: clothes, shoes, hats, a crib and sheets, a bassinet, blankets, a high chair, a play pen, car seats, toys, carriers, strollers, bottles, nappies, wipes, rocking chairs, a changing table, and anything else they could think of. Dad and Sherlock were drafted to help paint and set up the nursery. Once Stella showed up at Rosie's bakery just before closing time and apologetically begged her to sell her a fresh batch of snickerdoodle biscuits, as Molly's cravings were wild.

"She told me I'd better come back with snickerdoodle biscuits or not come back," Stella said. Thankfully Rosie still had some left. That wasn't the last time Stella showed up at odd hours either.

The only downside to all this was Sherlock's uneasiness around Molly. He had always made an effort to sort of be on his best behavior where she was concerned since that disastrous comment he'd made at a Christmas party decades ago. Now that she was hormonal, he was even more cautious. They rarely heard a deduction out of him and he minded his pleases and thank yous.

Eight months in, Molly was very pregnant and beginning to get moody. Her days were increasingly spent on bed rest with little to do and none of her sweaters fit anymore, which was a problem since it was November and freezing outside. The one she wore now constantly rode up her stomach. Stella was working a lot of hours at the Yard to save up money and time off, and since Rosie and Dad had to work most days too, that left Molly with only Sherlock for company at times. Now Rosie was working on the baby shower invitations just outside of the nursery, where Molly was rocking in her new chair and Sherlock was applying the second coat of pale pink paint. Rosie could feel the tension radiating from the two of them.

"Ow," Molly said, and when Rosie stuck her head in, she saw Molly rubbing her humongous bump. It was hard to believe she still had a whole month to go.

"You all right?" Sherlock turned from the wall, roller dripping into the paint container. Rosie thought not for the first time how odd it was to see him in an old T-shirt and sweat pants, but posh boy would never risk getting paint on his suits.

Molly winced. "Yes, it's just nonstop kicking. Right in the ribs. And my feet are swollen too."

Sherlock nodded and turned back to painting. "You're unusually quiet," Molly said.

"I'm…focusing," Sherlock said. "Want to make sure I do a good job." Well, that may have been half true. Rosie had no doubt he wanted to do a good job.

A few invitations later she heard Molly grunting and Sherlock saying, "No no, don't get up. Tell me what you need; I'll bring it to you."

"Just help me up. No, not my arm. My _hands_ , Sherlock. Take my hands and pull me up." He must have done so, because then she groaned. "Oh god, it's so heavy when I stand up, and it's making me need the loo _again_. And I'm hungry too, but I know if I gain any more weight I might explode. God, some days I just want this to be over."

Rosie peeked inside again. Molly was standing up and pulling her sweater down again to no avail. She sighed and waddled to the other corner where Sherlock had just been. "Sherlock, what's this?"

"What's what?" he asked nervously and followed her finger. "Oh. Looks like I or John may have accidentally left a bubble."

"A bubble?" Molly asked, and to Rosie and Sherlock's shock her voice sounded thick with tears. "There's a _bubbl_ e in the nursery wall? Why did you—" She covered her face and began to sob. Rosie started to stand up but paused when Sherlock began speaking in a rapid, panicky manner.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean for that to happen please don't cry. I'll redo it; it'll look like it was never there. Please. Molly, I'm sorry." He looked it.

Molly sniffed and surprised them both by pulling Sherlock to her, paint-stained shirt and all. "I know. It's not a big deal, I know it's not, I just…"

"Right," Sherlock said. He lightly patted her shoulders with the tips of his fingers, the bump between them making it difficult. "You've got a lot to carry." She hugged him tighter and his eyes got big. "And I see what you mean about the kicking."

Molly laughed a little and let him go. She wiped her eyes. "God, this is embarrassing. I don't know why I lost it over something so silly."

"Really, it's okay. You're not the first pregnant woman who has lost it with me." When he and Dad mentioned Rosie's mother at all, it was often to say how horrible she'd been, and one of their favorite grievances to list was how she'd acted when carrying. Before they'd even known about Rosie, her mother had snapped at Sherlock when he suggested her morning sickness might be something other than nerves. During her last few months when she and Dad were speaking again, she had demanded he sleep on the hardwood floor, insisting she needed the full bed but that he still had to be near her just in case. On a really hormonal day when Dad had been at the store (and taking his own sweet time with it according to her), she had thrown everything from dishes to hair products to furniture at Sherlock and then let Dad think Sherlock had broken it all. The stories always made Rosie thankful she couldn't remember her. Dad said every time that the only part of their relationship he didn't regret was having a daughter.

No wonder Sherlock was terrified around Molly; he had probably assumed all pregnant women acted like that. Now, however, he accompanied Molly out of the nursery and helped make her comfortable on the sofa with pillows propping her up and a heating pad for her back.

"When she's born, I'll expect you to pay me back for all the times I babysat Rosie," Molly said jokingly.

"Course," Sherlock replied. "And I'm sure John will give her free medical care and Watson will spoil her rotten with all the food she can eat."

"I can't wait," Molly sighed happily. Sherlock and Rosie returned to their respective tasks while Molly leaned back on the sofa with her hands on her tummy, murmuring about first times.

* * *

The next time Rosie was in Molly's house, it was jammed full of friends and family from both her and Stella's side. Sherlock and Dad were helping Rosie carry the cake she had starting preparing days ago, which she was quite pleased with.

Molly had just begun her ninth month and was the picture of maternal bliss, surrounded by presents with the lights from the Christmas tree falling softly on her face. By this point even her cheeks and chest were beginning to bulge, but she didn't look like she minded at all. The décor in the room ranged from Christmassy to pink and frilly for the shower. Rosie could tell by Sherlock's slight eye roll that he didn't think the two went well together at all, but at least he had learned better than to say so.

"You're here—oh my god!" Stella greeted them first; Molly rarely did much standing and walking these days. "It's huge. Oh Rosie, you shouldn't have."

"Yes, but she does it anyway," Dad said, and if Rosie hadn't been holding the cake she would have swat him.

"Well it's good; we have a lot of people to feed. Molly, look!"

Every head turned along with Molly's, and the amount of exclamations of "oh my goodness" and "wow, doesn't that look delicious" had Sherlock closing his eyes and muttering under his breath. Rosie giggled. Even for people he knew and loved, the man did not do parties.

 _"_ _Can't we leave after we deliver the cake?"_ he had whined to Dad. _"That's all we're really there for anyway."_

 _"_ _It's only a few hours, love. Then you can invent an excuse for the both of us."_ They could certainly do that, but Rosie planned to stay the whole time. She wanted to see every outfit unwrapped and give out as much cake as she could.

Speaking of which, Molly's attention was on them now. "Oh Rosie, it's beautiful! Just like my wedding cake was."

"This is the same woman who designed your wedding cake?" someone asked.

"Yup," Rosie said. "This one is carrot cake with brownies in the center."

"What's that on top?" Molly asked, leaning forward.

Much as she hated to make her move, Rosie wanted Molly to see it up close. "The result of a lot of sculpting and fondant." Taking her cue, Stella helped her wife rise and stand in front of the cake. Molly smiled and pointed appreciatively at the pink borders, but began to tear up when she saw the top of the third tier. It had a sculpted sleeping baby with a pink blanket as the centerpiece, with closed eyes and writing underneath it that said, _"To the very best mother-to-be, and 2_ _nd_ _mother to me."_


	12. Chapter 12

Though Sherlock insisted this was a tragedy and therefore not something to celebrate, Rosie jumped at the chance to do a little catering. She knew exactly what she would make and it was something she hadn't done in a while. A party like this deserved the most festive thing a bakery could produce.

The layers were the first thing to bake, and while those were finally in the ovens (plural; it took two ovens to cook them all) she began mixing up the icing and crushing the Oreos to give it that extra crunch her uncle loved. He had tried a lot of her treats, but once he'd had this he never wanted anything else. Every birthday he asked for it, though he had only ever had it as a single sheet cake. By Rosie's count, there would be enough people at this party that it would take four layers to feed them all. And knowing the man of the hour, he would probably go back for seconds and thirds, maybe even fourths.

When the layers had cooled, the fun part began. Spreading was one of the most satisfying parts of baking, whether it was frosting, peanut butter, or something else. Now she placed the chocolate and vanilla cake layers on a baking sheet covered in plastic wrap and, after struggling a bit with the ice cream scoop, spread vanilla and chocolate over them. She liked to alternate the flavors—chocolate ice cream with vanilla cake and vice versa—so the flavors would complement each other and the taste of either one wouldn't become too extreme. Next was to carefully sprinkle the crumbled and crushed Oreos, add more ice cream on top and spread it evenly, and carefully…carefully…set the layers on top of each other. This was nerve wracking because if one of them came apart in her hands, she had to replace it from scratch. That had happened before, but thankfully not this time.

Rosie breathed a sigh of relief when all of the layers were stacked nicely, but now she had to get it into the freezer before the ice cream melted. That was not easy. Even with a big freezer, she had to remove the icebox and the shelves before she could get those four layers to fit, and even then it just barely did. All of her ice was going to melt, but that was okay. The finished product would be worth it.

Now came the frosting. She had asked him to choose which kind and he had simply informed her that he could never decide between chocolate and vanilla because they were both the best and she would simply have to choose for him. A tricky task, but it could be done.

In keeping with the choco-nilla theme she'd created, Rosie made small batches of both. While the butter and brown sugar were melting, she could mix the powdered sugar with vanilla, milk, and more butter. He had asked for a conservative amount of the stuff since his metabolism wasn't what it used to be, but it was tough to get a creamy consistency without butter.

As soon as it was done, she grabbed the cake out of the freezer. Whether it was cooled or not, the frosting had to go on or it would set. Standing on a stepstool to reach the top, she spread it carefully, holding the side of the cake with one hand to keep it from toppling over. Beside her were the toppings: chocolate chips, whipped cream, and sprinkles. While adding these as delicately and stylishly as she could, her mind began to turn to Uncle Greg.

He had been one of her favorite babysitters as a child, in no small part because he could easily be talked into doing whatever she wanted. He was almost like a grandfather, letting her stay up late and watch TV with him, permitting her more sweets than Doctor Dad ever would have. And he was one of the best storytellers. Mrs. Hudson and Molly liked to read in a sweet voice, but Uncle Greg would get into it. Her favorite memories of him were sitting on his lap while he roared, chirped, barked, quacked, neighed, or made whatever other animal sound the book required.

It was truly a shame he'd never had kids of his own. She had a feeling he'd always wanted them, but his job didn't allow it and he'd never met anyone else after his divorce. It didn't take a genius to know that being a senior office at Scotland Yard and being a single parent (an involved one, at least) simply did not mix. So Rosie had become the daughter and to some extent the son he'd never had.

"Let me teach you to play football, you'll love it," he'd insisted. She laughed at the thought. He had taken her down to the fields in the park and tried to kick the ball to her. It had sailed right past her into the goal because she had been thinking about a new recipe she had discovered that morning in a cookbook. "Oi, you gotta pay attention!" he'd called. After scoring several more goals, he gave up.

"Come watch the Olympics with me, it's really exciting," he'd insisted again. She had humored him, but fallen asleep after only a few minutes. Not even the fanfare and flags could hold her attention, and Uncle Greg couldn't hide his disappointment. The poor man was stuck playing with dolls and toy food. Sometimes Rosie wondered why he'd ever become a cop. He seemed more like he would enjoy being a physical education teacher. But he must have liked his job all right, because he'd stuck with it long enough for her to be baking this cake.

* * *

"Our heartiest congratulations to Officer Greg Lestrade on his retirement, and our warmest thanks for his thirty years of service!" The cups and glasses clinked and everyone drank to that. The fifth floor of Scotland Yard was packed full of officers who had come to see Greg off, and all seemed relieved to be getting out of work for a bit. Sherlock still looked sour, as he insisted Lestrade was betraying him and leaving him at the mercy of Jones and Donovan, but even he smiled for the toast. Possibly because Dad was gritting his teeth and saying _"Smile, Sherlock"_ out of the corner of his mouth.

The man himself looked ten years younger, especially now when he turned to Rosie and said, "All right, now where's my cake? That's what I really came here for. Otherwise my retirement would have started already."

"Cake?" Rosie feigned innocence. "What cake?"

He laughed. "Right. Come on now, be serious."

"Oh, you mean you really wanted one? I thought it was just a suggestion." She focused on not blinking too much or letting her lips turn; Sherlock insisted these were the obvious signs of lying.

Greg's grin dropped like a brick. "You mean there is no cake?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you wanted one that badly." He shut his eyes like he was wounded and groaned. Some of the officers around him joined in.

"Damn, I was looking forward to that," he said.

"Looking forward to what? The crunch of the cookies blending seamlessly with the smooth ice cream?"

"Oh God, don't rub it in—"

"The cold whipped cream mixed with the warm cake to give your senses a blissful ride?" Another officer teased, and the others laughed.

Greg sulked. "It's not funny! It only makes sense a party should have cake and ice cream."

"Then it's a good thing I have it for you," Rosie said, and there was such a drastic change in his expression that everyone laughed again. "Just let me go get it."

"See, I knew you were just kidding," Greg said to her back.

"No you didn't—"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

After getting another Yarder to help her carry it, Rosie returned with the cake and set it on the table they'd arranged for her, to the cheers of everyone around. She held up her cake carver and when everyone had an empty plate in their hand and was silent, she spoke.

"To the finest copper in the Yard, and one of the kindest and most loyal friends my family could ask for. Thank you, and good luck with your retirement."

Greg almost teared up at the applause and cheers that followed, and laughed when someone jokingly yelled, "Ah, good riddance!" He took the big slice Rosie handed him and practically attacked it, moaning all the way about how good it was and thanking her over and over.

"And after a few more slices," he said with a mouthful. "This will truly no longer be my division."


	13. Chapter 13

It was still a month beforehand, but already Dad was on the phone with her and adamant. "Please. No more cake, okay? We love it, we really do, but we need a break."

Rosie put her hand on her hips, though he couldn't see her. "Are you saying I shouldn't make you and Sherlock something on the very day that I'm practically required to?"

"I would never say that, love. Wouldn't even think it," he said in a teasing tone. "Just don't make us cake. Give us something we haven't had before. You know, surprise us."

That was a tall order considering she had been baking for them since early childhood. The only thing she could think of that they had never seen her make was a wedding cake, and that was way too much food and time and materials for just two people who weren't even paying her. Rosie wandered around her bakery and came to a stop in front of her mini gallery. She kept photos of her proudest orders on the wall and it often helped to give her inspiration. There she was with her first order ever (that wasn't from a friend or family member), then there was a picture of her standing over her first sculpted cake.

Another photo began to draw her attention, and she stood on tiptoe to look at it. _Oh._ Now _there_ was an idea.

* * *

Rosie rarely had the chance to make things like this, but when she did, it was always fun. It required an early rising, but her excitement was such that she knew she likely would have been up anyway.

She had stayed up far too late last night reading over recipes, cookbooks, and online tips. Her skills in this area were rusty, but she would start with the easy stuff at least. Just 30 minutes after she had come into the kitchen and started working, her cupcake tin was full and ready to go in the oven. Now came the harder stuff.

The kneading and punching was enough to make her sweat, and several times Rosie had to leave the dough to wash up and stay sanitary. It was a relief when that was finally ready to go in too. If Dad or Uncle Greg were here, they would probably insist that a store-bought mix was much easier. And Rosie would treat them to her hardened glare, because no self-respecting baker ever used store-bought mix, especially the god-awful instant stuff.

Thankfully it was all downhill from here. After cleaning up, she retrieved the fruit from her refrigerator and began to arrange it just so. A diverse mix of fruit was one of the easiest ways to make a plate look pretty, and it was healthy but still sweet. After a good hour of cutting and arranging and checking the oven, the platter was ready. Rosie put the kettle on to boil and began to freshen up and get dressed. The sun was just starting to rise.

When the kettle began to sing, she poured the tea into two thermoses and carefully packed everything up. Tucked under the fruit plate was a card she'd made herself.

* * *

Ever the military man, former Captain John Watson was always waking up early. No matter how many years passed, his body continued to run on army time, so he was wide awake when a patch of sunshine fell right over his husband. Though Sherlock was most decidedly not someone whose body ran on army time but instead on a schedule most human beings could never hope to achieve, he truly resembled a sculpted work of art this morning.

John couldn't help himself. He kissed Sherlock's cheek and forehead and pushed his hair back. Sherlock let out a little snort in his sleep and John giggled. He scooted closer and started to put his arms around him, already thinking of how he was going to shower this man with love—

A knock on the door destroyed his fantasies. John muttered a curse. Who the hell was barging into their house at this hour? Whoever it was had better have a damn good explanation—

"Dad?" _Oh_. Well, that made sense. He supposed he could forgive his daughter.

"Rosie?"

"Yeah, can I come in?"

He quickly checked to make sure Sherlock was wearing something. Thankfully it had been cold last night. "Sure, come in."

The door opened, and a few seconds later his smiling daughter appeared with an enormous tray in her hands, piled high with breads, scones, Danishes, and pastries with expertly sliced fruit around them and two cups of steaming tea. Underneath the fruit tray was what looked like a card.

"Happy Father's Day, Dad." She set the tray down gently in front of him and met his hug. "Thought I'd surprise you with homemade breakfast in bed."

"You made all of this from _scratch?_ " It was all John could do to boil water for pasta. The two loves of his life never ceased to dazzle him.

"How long have you known me?" Rosie asked, almost insulted. "When have I ever made anything any other way?"

"Right, I know. Thank you so much." It looked and smelled delicious, and his stomach was already rumbling for it. He grinned, thinking to himself that there was no better representation of what being a father was like than having your child interrupt you when you were about to have some adult fun, only to do something so sweet that you felt bad for ever being annoyed.

He had just started nibbling a muffin (blueberry, his favorite) when Sherlock stirred. It took a minute for him to open his eyes, but when he saw Rosie, he smiled. "Hello."

"Happy Father's Day, Sherlock," she said. "Would you like some breakfast?"

Sherlock stretched and pushed himself up. Seeing the spread, he beckoned her over and gave her his own hug and kiss. "Thank you. Lovely way to wake up."

"You're welcome. If you like, I'll leave you two alone to spend the morning together," she said with a slyness that nearly made John choke on his muffin. "But I'll meet you for dinner?"

They both nodded and she made her way out the door. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and started nuzzling his neck while John picked up the card and opened it.

Inside was a drawing done childlike on purpose. The three stick figures were just like the ones she had done as a little girl, and John was amused to see that the height difference between him and Sherlock was as exaggerated as ever. Their fingers intertwined as they both gazed lovingly at the caption that was underneath the drawing.

 _My family. The best in the world._


	14. Chapter 14

London was going to be lonely without them.

When Rosie had first found out, her first instinct had been to cheer and cry, though not necessarily in that order. They deserved a peaceful retirement and this had been Sherlock's dream for years. He had already emptied the local bookstore of all of its beekeeping books and John had already left the clinic to help the two of them pack up, find a house, and sell their flat.

 _Sell their flat._ Rosie rushed around her kitchen, snatching ingredients out of cabinets and cupboards to give her something else to think about. Not that it really worked; she could bake almost anything in her sleep. She'd been making chocolate chip biscuits since she was three and at this point it took almost no mental effort at all, so even as she mixed and stirred and formed the balls of dough in her hands, her thoughts went right back to 221B Baker Street.

Though it was hard on everyone, there was no question that Mrs. Hudson's death had affected Sherlock the worst. She had passed away peacefully in her sleep of natural causes—the doctors insisted it was "just her time"—and if the three of them were honest, they'd all known for years that it was coming. But none of this consoled Sherlock or even Dad for that matter. They'd cried, lost their appetites and subsequently some weight, and at one point had even paid to stay at a hotel that was only a few blocks away, just because they couldn't bear to be in that flat without her. When the casket had been lowered into the grave, Sherlock had been moaning and sobbing almost like an animal and everyone had been watching him closely for a while. Rosie had suspected they would soon have to move for his mental health.

She just hadn't expected it to be so far away.

 _"_ _Why can't you just get another place in London?"_ she replayed the conversation in her head as the biscuits went in and she started her next task. _"All of your friends are here; I'm here. You both love this city."_

 _Sherlock had gestured to his progressively graying hair and the cane Dad was reluctantly using to walk. "We can't exactly go chasing around criminals at our age. Lestrade has retired, Molly is a stay at home mum busy with her family, and Mycroft is back and forth between countries. Honestly, Mrs. Hudson was the main reason we stayed as long as we did. At this point, the only thing left in London for us is you. And you can always come visit us, whenever you want."_

 _"_ _It's hard to live in this city now," Dad had said when she'd started to protest. "The crowds and all of the walking are hard on our legs, and you'd be hard pressed to find a London flat without stairs. The pollution doesn't help our lungs either. We need someplace quiet, with fresh air and more space."_

All of that added to the fact that Sherlock had always wanted to be a beekeeper and the decision was clear. Rosie still felt hurt that she wasn't enough to keep them in London; she was their daughter, after all. But by the same token they were her fathers and best friends, and she was going to help them start their new (and probably final, though she couldn't bear to think of that) chapter together even if it pained her to do so.

* * *

After examining their list of belongings a few too many times and interrogating the poor movers who could barely keep up with his rapid speech, Sherlock joined John in walking up the path to their new home. They were already breathing easier in Sussex Downs and cherished the blue sky. It was nice to actually be able to see it now that it wasn't blocked by buildings and skyscrapers. Even better was that they no longer felt dragged down by emptiness and longing for the woman who had been their mother no matter how old they were. Sometimes her scent would linger and one whiff would be enough send Sherlock into his room with his face in the pillow. Both of them were relieved to never have to walk by 221A again.

"I told you they had everything set up just fine," said John as they passed through the door. All of their furniture was placed the way they liked it thanks to Sherlock's dimension-specific instructions. It already felt like home.

"You can never be too care—what's this?" He pointed to the table, where two plates were sitting with steam emanating from one of them. They were just starting to give off a sweet smell and the men had their arms around each other's' shoulders before they even saw the note.

 _Dear Dad and Sherlock,_

 _Happy Homecoming! I've made these chocolate chip biscuits and peanut butter and candy brownies as a housewarming gift. You both need to put some weight back on, so I expect you to eat every last crumb. I already miss you but wish you the best of luck, health, and happiness in your new home. As soon as things slow down at work, I'll be on the next train out to visit you and the new house. Take care of yourselves and each other, and I can't wait to see Sherlock's beehives when he gets them going._

 _Love,_

 _Rosie_

Sherlock sat down and picked up a biscuit while John reached for a brownie, and they wasted no time in feeding each other bites. When they'd both had their fill, they moved to their new couch and reclined back with Sherlock in John's arms, reveling in the lack of car horns and helicopters and people walking below them, as well as in what a wonderful daughter they had.

It was a happy homecoming indeed.


	15. Chapter 15

This was the biggest event of Rosie's baking career and she wasn't ready. Not one bit.

Yes, she had been a professional baker for 10 years now. Yes, she knew how to make everything they asked for. It wasn't even that surprising that they'd come to her given who her fathers were and that they and Uncle Mycroft—at Sherlock's insistence—were major donors. And it wasn't like she hadn't baked for large groups before. But those numbers had always been in the hundreds, never the _thousands_.

 _"_ _You can do it,"_ Sherlock had said, the git. _"You can, I know you can. No one could do this better than you."_

Well maybe so, but she sure as hell couldn't and wouldn't do it alone. For the first time since she had opened, Rosie posted a Help Wanted sign on her door and made posts on her social media pages saying she had an opening. The advance the committee had given her would cover the costs of paying the employee, and she planned to only keep them until after this was all over. Once the postings were out there, she began searching for stores where she could order ingredients in bulk and sent messages out to her regulars. With an assignment like this, she wouldn't be taking on any more orders for the foreseeable future.

* * *

After weeding out the unworthy, help came in the form of a sharp-looking, self-identified bisexual woman about Rosie's age named Relitza. Working in her parents' restaurant had kept her up to date on health codes and presentation and she liked to bake on the side for charity events. Though she didn't say it, Rosie thought she resembled a model.

"Now I'm going to put your creativity to the test," Rosie said on their first day working together. They were leaning against the counter, the shop closed on Sunday and the AC cranked up to drive out the June heat. "I know I want to write something with the icing, but I don't know what. 'Happy Pride' or 'London Pride' doesn't seem original enough."

Relitza pursed her lips like she'd tasted a lemon. "That's tricky," she admitted. "It needs to appeal to such a broad base…maybe 'You are welcome here'."

"I like it, but it seems a little long," Rosie said. "Remember, we're going to have even more cupcakes than cakes." She planned to make plenty of mini ones so they would multiply fast and appeal to those who might be dieting.

Relitza nodded, and after a minute more, she smiled and said, "You belong here."

Damn. If that wasn't perfect.

* * *

Relitza was such a perfect worker that Rosie was mentally berating herself for not having hired her sooner; it would have saved so much stress. She was able to keep up a quick pace without sacrificing quality, she measured carefully, she stored food correctly, and she made good conversation. In spite of all the extra work, the hours flew by.

"I bet the marchers will love this stuff so much they'll ask you to do it again every year," Relitza said, guiding the beater around the bowl like a pro.

Rosie groaned. "Not sure that's a good thing. You and I at least will be sick of the stuff." Indeed, she had stopped eating a lot of what she made. And now after the 18th batch, she was already starting to feel like she never wanted to use this recipe again even though it was one of her favorites.

She glanced at the clock, wiping sweat off her face. Having another body around made the kitchen even hotter than usual. "I think we're on schedule with the cakes and cupcakes, but behind on the fruit."

"I can do the fruit if you do the frosting," Relitza said. "Like I told you in the interview, the frosting is my weakness. Takes too much patience."

"Well I'm glad, because I love the frosting and hate chopping fruit." She high fived Relitza and they forced their aching feet and fingers to keep going. Rosie retrieved the rainbow cakes and cupcakes and all of her different colors of frosting. On the cake she wrote "You belong here" and on the cupcakes she wrote "Y" "O" "U" "B" "E" "L" "O "N" "G" "H" "E" "R" E. " When put together, they formed a rainbow. And once she cut into them, the marchers would see that there were rainbows inside too.

In between spellings she watched Relitza, who was peeling, chopping, cutting, and slicing like a pro. She supposed it would be easier for someone who was used to restaurant cooking to work with a knife and cutting board than turn her knuckles white squeezing the last drop out of a tube of frosting. Even with it being in a net for sanitation, Relitza's hair fascinated Rosie. It was dark and long with ringlets and it matched her eyes perfectly. Rosie wished her hair looked like that instead of like her estranged mother's straight-as-a-rail blonde.

Come to think of it, everything about Relitza seemed well put together. She could match her boots and vest and not make it seem like she was trying too hard. And she somehow managed to never get anything on her clothes; only her apron was sporting flour and batter stains. Rosie on the other hand wore everything she ate and baked even when she tried her hardest not to. How on earth was a woman like Relitza single? Or at least Rosie assumed she was. She never mentioned anybody and only her mother had come to see her at the bakery once.

"How much fruit are you thinking?" she called, and Rosie nearly dropped her icing in surprise. "I've covered the whole plate, but knowing the crowd size and the amount of vegans and dieters, I almost feel like we'll need more rainbow fruit than rainbow dessert."

Rosie tried to do some math in her head. "Figure maybe ten of those big platters? It'll be a first come first served thing no matter what, but there should be enough. I bulk ordered a shit ton of fruit and most of it just arrived yesterday, so it should still be fresh."

"Got it." Relitza dried her hands and moved the containers of kiwi and mango from one of the many refrigerators. "I've arranged them by color."

"Awesome. I just have a few more of these to frost and I'll come help you." She still found herself mentally thanking Dad for those cake decorating classes. This would have been hard to do if she hadn't been practicing since she was eight.

When she finally joined Relitza with the fruit, their hands bumped quite a bit. Rosie didn't mind. She thought Relitza didn't either. She'd managed to group the fruit into a beautiful rainbow shape, starting with watermelon, strawberries, raspberries, and cherries, and ending with plums, blackberries, and purple grapes. With the two of them working together, they finished faster and had finally piled the last platter high at 12:30 a.m.

"Hope I don't collapse at the march tomorrow," Rosie murmured. "Especially since I have to be up at seven."

"Don't worry," Relitza said with a welcome touch to her shoulder. "If you collapse, I'll be there to pick you up."

Rosie let those beautiful words lead her back to her bedroom, where she fell asleep exhausted but happy.

* * *

Thanks to Relitza, Dad, Sherlock, Uncle Greg, Uncle Mycroft, and Uncle Mycroft's minions, the day went perfectly. They showed up even earlier than Rosie expected to help carry, transport, and set up. With the exception of Uncle Mycroft and his crew, everyone was wearing Pride shirts. The sun was shining but not boiling, and the sky was clear. The only thing that could have made it more perfect would have been an actual rainbow, but she supposed they couldn't have everything.

"While equality has my full support, I do have my limits in terms of making myself presentable," Mycroft insisted when his brother complained. Sherlock hadn't stopped giving him the side eye since, but Rosie was so grateful for his help she didn't care. They had tables at the place where the parade was supposed to end, and in front of them was an archway of rainbow balloons and a big FINISH sign.

"Not a bad place to wait," Dad said, albeit a little bitterly. Rosie put her arm around him. He had marched with Sherlock every year since she was little and it had been a blow to learn that his leg would no longer let him. Sherlock refused to march without him, so the two of them were going to man the tables and pass the proverbial torch to her.

"Thank you both, I appreciate it."

"No problem," Sherlock said. After straightening the tablecloth one more time, he unfolded the lawn chairs and he and John sat down. "They'll be starting now, Watson. You and Relitza should go."

"Me and…" Of course Sherlock had deduced it. Rosie wondered how much Relitza knew about his reputation. Thankfully she was spared finding out, as Relitza was eager to get down to the festivities too. Rosie bid her fathers goodbye and she and the others headed to the starting point, where a crowd was beginning to gather.

* * *

It was the biggest turnout London Pride had ever seen, and Rosie ended up getting separated from her uncles because of it. She still had Relitza though, mostly because the woman was holding her arm. Rosie told herself it was just to keep them from getting separated.

 _But why?_ They weren't working anymore. Relitza was free to go and do as she pleased. Did she really want to still be with Rosie after spending almost every waking minute baking with her the past few weeks?

"Love is love!" "We're here, we're queer; we're not going anywhere!" Each chant lifted her spirits higher and higher. The crowd was thick and stifling, but it was packed with people of every age, race, religion, and gender. Some were kids, some were old, some were couples and others not. Most were waving rainbow flags and quite a few had colorful hair. Next to them Rosie's equality shirt felt inadequate.

The two of them didn't speak much since nothing could be heard over the chanting crowd and both were busy taking pictures of the floats and fabulous drag queens and signs. When at last they reached the end, Rosie was proud to see that the fruits of her labors were already becoming popular.

"Rainbow cakes!" someone shouted, and just like that a line began to form. Rosie and Relitza high fived.

"You're welcome!" Relitza hollered. Rosie laughed.

A woman with pink hair marching next to them stopped. "You made all of those cupcakes?"

"She and I did," Relitza nodded to Rosie. "She owns a bakery and I work there."

"Oh, wow!" She smiled. "That must be awesome, getting to work with your girlfriend."

"She's not—" but the woman had already turned around before Rosie could get the words out.

"I'm not?" Rosie didn't know how she had heard Relitza over this crowd, but she did. She tilted her head and those ringlets framed her face in the way that got Rosie's knees wobbling. "Do you think there's any possibility we could change that?"

All the voices in Rosie's head saying a boss shouldn't date an employee were silenced as soon as she looked over at her fathers. Sherlock was raising his eyebrows and Dad was giving her the thumbs up.

She grinned. "Oh God, yes."


End file.
